"she's the most
brilliant and interesting figure in the younger set of the Four Hundred.
She's a newspaper beauty. She's copy. She's news. And when she gets into
a railroad wreck and disappears from the world for weeks, and her
supposed fiance, the heir to a dukedom, makes an infernal ass of himself
over it all and practically gives himself away to the papers, she's big
news."

"And if she hasn't done any of these things," retorted Banneker, drawing
upon some of Camilla Van Arsdale's wisdom, brought to bear on the case,
"she's libel, isn't she?"

"Hardly libel. But she isn't safe news until she's identified. You see,
I'm playing an open game with you. I'm here to identify her, with half a
dozen newspaper photos. Want to see 'em?"

"No, thank you."

"Not interested? Are you going to take me over to Miss Van Arsdale's?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Why should I? It's no part of my business as an employee of the road."

"As to that, I've got a letter from the Division Superintendent asking
you to further my inquiry in any possible way. Here it is."

Banneker took and read the letter. While not explicit, it was
sufficiently direct.

"That's official, isn't it?" said Gardner mildly.

"Yes."

"Well?"

"And this is official," added Banneker calmly. "The company can go to
hell. Tell that to the D.S. with my compliments, will you?"

"Certainly not. I don't want to get you into trouble. I like you. But
I've got to land this story. If you won't take me to the place, I'll
find some one in the village that will. You can't prevent my going
there, you know."

"Can't I?" Banneker's voice had grown low and cold. A curious light
shone in his eyes. There was an ugly flicker of smile on his set mouth.

The reporter rose from the chair into which he had wetly slumped. He
walked over to face his opponent who was standing at his desk. Banneker,
lithe, powerful, tense, was half again as large as the other; obviously
more muscular, better-conditioned, more formidable in every way. But
there is about a man, singly and selflessly intent upon his job in hand,
an inner potency impossible to obstruct. Banneker recognized it;
inwardly admitted, too, the unsoundness of the swift, protective rage
rising within, himself.

"I don't propose to make trouble for you or to have trouble with you,"
said the reporter evenly. "But I'm going to Miss Van Arsdale's unless
I'm shot on the way there."

"That's all right," returned the agent, masteri